


past

by sopronetotakefakes



Series: has soul/moves iron [2]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, RWBY
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Period Typical Attitudes, previous work reworked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29555463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sopronetotakefakes/pseuds/sopronetotakefakes
Summary: Two girls ascending and descending. Rinse, repeat.
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long
Series: has soul/moves iron [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2165793
Kudos: 2





	past

Yet another summer bringing merciless heat under the sun, scorching the earth hard-packed and dry, sending little puffs of dust up to cling to sweat damp calves, coat the soles of dragging feet. Only the children aren’t parched from the rays, running surefooted as goats through the winding paths, down the market paths to the docks, rubbing their eyes against the reflective expanse of blue before careening in with loud splashes and shrieks.

Still a crowd gathers at the docks to watch the black-sailed ship come in, some bearing tokens, others flower garlands that soon wilt in the sun bearing down relentless in a golden haze, rays refracting off the waves in a terrible brilliance. Stare too long and the light glints piercing behind the eyes into the brain, sending heads pulsing in time with the sea. Small wonder that the first person to sight the dark smudge on the horizon holds his tongue, rubs his eyes once, twice, before bringing his hands around a hastily moistened mouth.

 _"They have come ! They have come!"_ comes the cry rippling through the gathered crowd on the harbour like a wave breaking, a flurried fury of movements and foam.

The mangled remains of the tributes that had come before had sapped the malignancy from the locals, dulled the collective edge of vengeance. The bodies so very slight, seeping patiently through their sheets, waiting for the first amphora to be consecrated to the king's wrath, still as bright and hot as the fire on the the funeral pyre of his only son. But the torch is put to the bodies, and they blister and crackle just the same, smoke thickening the backs of throats, musky sweet at the exposure of the marrow, the wind blowing savory for days with the memory.

" _Do you remember - Yes, but do you remember how - No, that wasn't how it -- I remember -"_ conversations fragmenting suddenly at the distant howling of the rhombus up by the hills, announcing the small procession, growing closer still.

As always, the crowd parts for her, their chatter muting to whispers, finally silence as she passes them, purple skirts edged black from the dust.

All in silence, and still they wait. All quiet, but for one child’s loud whisper, milk-fed on stories: "But Mother, where is the bull?"

She curves her palm against the sun.

***

  
For she had been wearing white, the first time she danced for the bull.

Years ago, a priestess walking by the harbour had pointed to her, chosen her out of the pack of sunburnt children being hauled roughly ashore, and she had followed, heedless of the spirited bartering and violent gesturing happening over her head, through the streets, to the temple. There was a hush as she entered the sudden shade, the paved stone cool and steady under her feet. They must have bathed her then, clothed her in robe and sandals before leading her to the alcove beside the pen.

What else is remembered? Lessons but not the content. Whippings and days of denied meals, even if the pain and hunger pangs seem like someone else’s memory. That she was lithe despite her slimness, pale and unmarked despite the blows they attempt to land, that they nodded and started her with on the calves to begin her training for the taurolathapsia. Of nights with more lessons, imparted knowledge of rites, more rituals to be memorised. That when she grew, the neckline of her sleeveless robe remained above her collarbone, that all men would respect the rights sacred to the bull.

The first time she danced for the bull, the sky had been too clear a blue, the beardless boys too easily hypnotised by a girl whose purple-banded hemline fell no longer than their own. Later that night, a young acolyte had told her, giggling, that some of the girls had been watching her too. It seems a dream, the grim king and pale queen on their alabaster thrones as she was named first daughter, princess, willing sacrifice, the king anointing her forehead with scented oil, bidding her to go into the ring to dance.

Dance to the thudding, the dance of the drums, the deep lows and huffs of the bull keeping strange rhythm to the chimes of her anklets. Furious huffs punctuating the rattling of heavy sticks, a splintering crash bringing the crowd to a crescendo. The slow ceremonial turn to meet the bull, pause counted out by the hot pulse in her ears. Then the flash of polished horn, two handed grasp catching the momentum of the head toss, body arcing upwards and over to the thud of soles against heaving hide. A breath, then off again, landing to the roar of the crowd even as the bull wheels to charge anew.

***

But that was before the summer before the delegation sailed away to the games, before the red headed boy slave returned mouth taut and face set in grim unfamiliar lines. He had sailed beside the future king, heavy with the promise of freedom, and he had returned to stand before the wrathful throne. The king’s son has fallen, and the king must be told, and retribution is swift and dreadful when sent from these shores.

The queen had wept, but the king saw only blood; watched dry-eyed as the red-headed slave swore an oath, killed the bull, withstood the charge that bored deep into his eye. And it was it not a nameless slave that returned to her that night, but the king’s half-bull, the Minotaur reaching for her with the sour reek of wine on his breath, his one remaining eye sharp and unclouded and bright with something resembling victory.

Now black smudges appear yearly on their horizon, and she must welcome them with scented oils, bitter wine, guards, acolytes, slaves.

The roars of the rhombus subside, leaving one ghastly howl echoing down the hill. Twelve long breathes into stillness, and she raises her arms in a gesture of welcome, heavy gold weights dropping into the crook of each elbow.

Summers ago, and summer again now.

The gods, they strike men blind.

**Author's Note:**

> Next in this series:  
> O’ slender-ankled one, she who walks where the wildflowers grow  
> Death follows.


End file.
